Bittersweet Tenderness
by 8RedDice
Summary: It's quarter past midnight. The light is off and all that can be heard is the clock ticking notoriously. He can't sleep. He can't sleep, so he opens his eyes and studies the face in front of him. Smirking, he counts all the freckles on Elizabeta's nose and spots that her lips are softly parted. A series of drabbles capturing Feliks and Elizabeta's relationship.


**AN:** ** This is like my first Hetalia fanfic I've actually finished, so woo! This is basically a series of drabbles which more or less link to Poland-Hungary relations historically. It starts off around WW2 and finishes in 1956. English isn't even my first language, so yeah. Anyway~****  
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**It was supposed to be based around an alphabet, I wanted it to be half Polish half Hungarian, but I have no knowledge of Hungarian language, and I don't know anyone who could help me, so I just made the fic a bit Poland-centric.  
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**Enjoy~  
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Adrenaline (pl. adrenalina)

A rush of excitement flows through Feliks' veins, filling him up. Surprisingly, even though the victory is almost impossible to achieve, he wants to fight. Draw blood from the enemies, he and his people whom he takes such pride in. Elizabeta is also there, a revolver in her hands, sweat appearing on her upper lip. She wants to help as much as she can, even though there's just a couple of Hungarians by her side. Her body is buzzing with adrenaline and neither of them can wait to fight. Unable to stand his enemies, Feliks wants them out. Elizabeta wants him to be happy.

Tissue paper (pl. bibuła)

"I'm fine, Elizabeta, I'm fine", Feliks stutters, as he covers the wounds with a cloth. Albeit the blood runs through the material quickly, staining it scarlet red. Elizabeta tries to cut some bandages up for him, yet her hands are trembling and her vision is blurred with tears. Groaning breathlessly, Feliks reaches out to his side and picks up some tissue paper. There's like, absolutely nothing in this house, damn it, he thinks and tries to wipe her tears with the tissue paper. Yet the colourful paper bleeds and stains Elizabeta's face blue. Feliks grins a little, yet his smile fades as his own blood accompanied the blue.

Keeping watch (pl. czuwanie)

„You need to rest too, Feliks, don't be an idiot!", Elizabeta's soft voice cuts through the air like a razor blade, yet he has no intention of resisting.

„You're the stronger one at the moment, you have to rest, so you can help me tomorrow", Feliks replies, forcing his eyelids to stay wide open. „Can you, like shut up and go to sleep, El? I'll be fine."

Finally resisting, Elizabeta rests her head on Feliks' thigh, trying to fall asleep, yet she can't force herself to. Instead, she watches Feliks' head to tilt to the side and listens to the soft sound of snoring. Smirking, she lets herself to rest on his legs and keeps the watch.

Touch (pl. dotyk)

Safety. Warmth. Trembling touch of Elizabeta's hand keeps him in this state. Feliks tightens his grip and smiles faintly, as they walk on the streets of Warsaw, counting the bodies of Poles, whose life has been taken away that night. It did really change Feliks' face, as Elizabeta recalls later, his eyes are mournful and bravery seems to be gone in that moment as he clings onto her and says nothing. She looks up at him and watches his eyes fill up with salty tears, as she pulls him into a tight hug. Feeling her body beside him really did count as something.

Explosion (pl. eksplozja)

Ash.

Flames.

And smoke, lots of smoke.

It irritates his eyes and causes them to water and swell up. Annoyed, he wipees his face with his sleeve and rushes through the crowd of wounded people to look for Elizabeta. She's nowhere around and Feliks begins to wonder whether she's still alive. Panic, like deadly acid, spreads in his veins almost immediately, as his legs begin to soften. Elbowing people in his way, he's trying to find the main pile of victims and sighs with relief.

She's not there.

Grenade (pl. granat)

„So you pull this cotter pin out and throw it", Elizabeta explains, her voice hardening as she pulls the said thing out of a grenade and throws it in the direction of Nazi tanks. They listen for a while and then an explosion shakes the ground and they collapse, one in the other's arms. Heartbeats speed up, as they listen to people burning. _Unbelievable_, Feliks thinks, holding Elizabeta, as they lie on the ground behind a pile of rubble. _They almost sound like actual people_._ They don't sound as monster-like as they really are, when given any kind of power. It makes it harder to bear_, he adds to himself, clinging onto Elizabeta like onto a life boat.

Tribute (pl. haracz)

„So, you don't need your anthem now, Mr. Łukasiewicz", Ivan smiles widely, it can almost get away with being called innocent, yet Feliks knows better. „My anthem is enough for your glorious Republic of Poland."

Feliks almost spits on the ground with disgust, yet is forced to smile unnaturally. „Obviously", he snarls with as sweet expression on his face, as he can possibly make. „Anything else, Mr Braginsky?"

„I don't think you need your flag either, do you?"

Ideal world (pl. ideał)

„I could have a whole stable of ponies, you know...", Feliks' voice trails off, as his hands he's been gesticulating with fall onto the grass again. It's sunny and bright and the soft smell of grass and flowers surrounds them. Elizabeta nods quietly, breathing in the sweet scent, as she listens to him dreaming. „I could like, paint it pink so it looks nicer. You?"

Deep in thought, Elizabeta doesn't answer straight away. „I... in a perfect world, you'd do my hair everyday, huh?", she asks, raising an eyebrow.

„Well, duh, what did you think?", Feliks can't believe her wish is so simple. „I can do it now again for you if you want, like, straight away", he offers, grinning.

A Swallow (pl. jaskółka)

„Is that a swallow?" Feliks asks, pointing up to the sky. Elizabeta peeked out from behind a set of branches of the tree they were sat on. A blue bird just flew across the sky, causing both of them to lift up their heads.

„I guess so. We should get going", Elizabeta exclaims, before trying to jump off the tree.

„What?", Furrowing his eyebrows, he follows her without another word.

„It was flying low, wasn't it?", she explains quietly. „It's going to start raining soon. Do you fancy getting completely soaked?"

Without another word, he follows her patiently, while the air gets heavier and the surroundings quieter.

Handcuffs (pl. kajdanki)

Feliks rubs his temples in a slow, yet firm manner. He can smell blood in his cell, it attacks his senses, pinching them, twisting to the extreme.

_Where do they keep her?, _he thinks, peeking from ehind his cells' bars. She won't be dead, that's for sure, but...

To his surprise, it seems like an awful lot of weight has just been put on his shoulders. The weight of his people and worry for Elizabeta seems a thousand times heavier right now.

Mirror (pl. lustro)

The smell of blood is terrifying, yes. Elizabeta holds nauseous feeling back, when she struggles to unlock her handcuffs.

Exhausted, she gives up after a while. Looking around the cell, she notices an enormous half shattered mirror hung on the wall. Suspicious, she approaches it carefully before glaring at her dirty, torn clothes and a miserable face of hers.

_Is he okay?_, the thought runs through her head and it suddenly reminds her of Feliks. She merely looks back at the mirror and almost feels his long fingers running through her hair. It's almost soothing.

Melancholy (pl. melancholia)

Her thoughts are slowly drenching with gloom.

_Quite sad really, _she thinks to herself, sat in her armchair at home, her hands busy picking the individual strings of wool out of the covering, _Why isn't he home yet, he should be home, I should've brought him home, stupid, stupid, stupid!_

Tears roll down her cheeks, salty and hot, she wipes them off with her sleeve, but can't help the unusual feeling of sadness when Feliks isn't around.

She embraces her sorrow, knowing that Feliks might not come back and it's entirely her fault. It does her head it, yet the angrier she is, the gloomier she soon becomes.

Heaven (pl. niebo)

It's raining. Cold droplets pour down the grey sky, as if everyone in the world was crying. Elizabeta sits on the pavement next to the house, enjoying the freezing water roll down her back.

At first she thinks she's gone insane.

Yet she finds herself running and falling into his embrace and she's crying because Feliks is back, her Feliks is back...

And he giggles when she cuddles onto him and they kiss and it tastes of rain and blood and they hold each other close.

„You're back..."

„Totally."

Tourniquet (pl. opatrunek)

She wraps another bandage around his waist, patiently listening to his whining and hissing.

„How did you get out of there?", she asks, her voice still trembling.

„Toris, he like, helped me out a little", Feliks explains, enjoying the cool touch of her fingers on his body. Yet he can still taste the metallic blood on his tongue and the heavy smell of it around.

She doesn't seem satisfied with his answer, albeit finishes treating his wounds and snuggles close to him. He hols her close and they know there was a reason that they were inseparable for.

Kiss (pl. pocałunek)

Feliks faintly remembers that night. All he can recall is the usually distant feeling of pleasure and the amazing way her cold fingers ran though his hair, all over his face and his body. Never feeling so peaceful before, he doesn't want these moments to stop.

Yet everything tastes of blood and as much as he can't stand it, the way Elizabeta looks at him recompensates everything.

She remembers it all, beginning with how sweet he tasted when their lips finally met, through the pleasant way her name escaped his lips, to the fuzzy feeling when they snuggled up together afterwards.

They both listen to the other's heartbeat and one after the other, they fall asleep.

Revolver (pl. rewolwer)

„Feliks, would you like to shut up?", Elizabeta rushes through the house, with furious Feliks following her endlessly. „It's just for safety reasons."

„If it was for safety resons, it wouldn't, like even be there!", Feliks shouts, clenching his fists. „If you want to play with weapons, go to a military station, or like, start another war!"

Elizabeta tilts her head to the side, studying Feliks' face, unblinking. „What if someone like Ivan tries to come in here again? Do you fancy being separated again all of a sudden?"

Minutes pass and Feliks just stands there, expressionless. His nails dug in his palms, teeth clenching.

Surprisingly, she doesn't even stand there, she walks away, just to walk into the room again and hug him from behind.

„Oh come on, cheer up!"

„I totally did!", he smiles widely when he feels her hands around him and they walk away. „I still didn't lose that fight!"

Torpor (pl. senność)

It's quarter past midnight. The light is off and all that can be heard is the clock ticking notoriously.

He can't sleep. He can't sleep, so he opens his eyes and studies the face in front of him. Smirking, he counts all the freckles on Elizabeta's nose and spots that her lips are softly parted. Their hands are still entwined and her long eyelashes throw a long shadow at her cheeks. The soft smile decorating her beautiful lips make her look so peaceful and innocent... Her hair, although scattered on the pillow, still kept that graceful look that Feliks always admired. Carefully, he ran his other hand over her head, brushing a single strand of hair aside.

He grinned, as he childishly snuggled closer to her and embracing her tightly, he also managed to fall asleep.

Longing (pl tęsknota)

_She said she'd be here before dinner. I made dinner 5 hours ago and she's not here. It doesn't matter it was 1pm when I made it, she's still not here!_

It might not be noticeable, yet Feliks misses Elizabeta, even though she's just went out with friends. They were called inseparable for a reason and even though she's just been out for a day, he starts to behave like a lovesick puppy.

Not really knowing what to do, he takes out some old paintbrushes and a couple of oil paints and sits in front of an old, wooden board. Dipping the brush in paint, he has no idea of what to paint or how to do it.

Yet he completely loses the sense of time, swinging the brush from side to side, covering the board in pink and greens and blues and he's really proud of himself, thrusting his chest in such a proud way while walking once Elizabeta is back home.

She shows him a bracelet she got from Natalia, and Feliks shows her the wooden board covered in little flowers, now hung up on the wall.

Bloodletting (pl. upust krwi)

It's 1956 and it's one of the sunniest days over in Hungary. Elizabeta smiles, holding a couple of rifles in her hand, as Feliks, a little paler than usual, walks into the blood donation tent.  
„Are you sure you're not scared, Fel?", she asks, grinning widely.  
„It's like totally for your own good, so shush and let me make this enormous sacrifice", Feliks replies, half serious, half ironically. The lady in the tent exchanges a polite conversation with him, and commands him to sit on the chair.

When she comes back, Feliks is a little more shaky and Elizabeta barely holds back laughter.  
As the nurse takes out her syringes, Feliks looks away and hisses when the needle pushes through his skin, drawing blood out of his body.

„See, it's not that bad", he exclaimed loudly, yet paler than ever.

Elizabeta excuses herself and walks outside, laughing as much as she'd never done so in ages.

Christmas Eve (pl. Wigilia)

This year, Feliks insists on making Christmas in the Polish style. So, the two of them gathers around the small table they've prepared, a couple of small dishes, a bowl of tangerines and some wine. They share the Christmas wafer and wish each other another good year, before they sit down and eat.

„You know, your Christmas Eves are funny, Fel", Elizabeta admits, stabbing one of the pierogis with her fork. „You always do so much work beforehand, just for this evening. Why bother?"

„Are you kidding me? This is like, totally a tradition back where I'm from. There's nothing good in Christmas when you don't do loads of preparations!"

Elizabeta loves the smell of tangerines, which always remains in the house after Christmas too. It reminds her of peaceful times they always have during that time. And of Feliks, too.

A quiet place (pl. zacisze)

It's an enormous relief for Feliks, to be back at home. The flames in the fireplace dance enthusiastically together, while they look through some old albums Elizabeta found in the attic a couple of days earlier. Those old, coffee stained photos remind Feliks of a lot different times, times of glory, when he was one of the greatest countries in Europe, back when he meant something.

„Are you okay?", Elizabeta asks, a tinge of worry in her voice. Feliks nods immediately, gulping.

„It's just memories, El. Nothing like totally major, or anything."

Elizabeta sighs deeply and wraps her arm around Feliks'. „You know, I hope there won't be as much violence as it used to."

„Ah, you can't just hope that, we always need to be prepared to fight, that's what we're like always told."

„I'm not afraid to fight Fel, you know that more than I do", she whispers quietly. „But what's wrong with dreaming?"

Feliks doesn't answer, just remains quiet until she falls asleep, as he strokes her long, chocolate hair and thinks of how would peaceful world actually look like.

He doesn't find an answer.


End file.
